


Like Real People Do

by jamlocked



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Hallucinations, M/M, Minor Body Horror, set between S2 & 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-08-29 16:05:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8496532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked
Summary: Sherlock has a job to do, but he doesn't have to do it alone. Set between S2 and 3.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have a posting schedule for this, but I want it done before S4. I don't envision it being too long, so hopefully won't keep any readers waiting ages between chapters.

 

 

The air was so thick he could taste it. Flies circled a naked bulb. The material on the arms of the chair prickled and itched under his elbows, sliding along skin beaded with sweat. He wore only a white singlet and shorts, the heat too unbearable for anything else. The idea of a coat and scarf was so far-fetched as to be another life; he felt he would never be cool again. A London winter. He might never be home again.

‘Took you long enough,’ said a lazy voice in his ear, and he would have smiled if it weren’t too much effort to raise his lip.

‘Where have you been?’ he murmured, barely forming the words.

‘Here and there. Did you miss me?’

This was Prague in mid-summer, caught in an endless slow heat that rolled up the continent from the deserts of Africa, spreading itself over the eastern states of Europe, strengthened by the sideways push of the cooler air over the Mediterranean Sea. The sun was a white ball sliding over days and days of deep blue sky, and on the rare occasions the air moved, he would lift his face and sniff his future on the breeze. Somewhere under the sweat, and the dust, and the floating high that kept the world away, he could sense the promise of slum living and the drag of a great river, spice markets and the twirling spires that watched over the place where worlds divided. If this road didn’t lead to Istanbul, he would credit the man with surprising him all over again.

‘Long way to go before you get that far, Sherlock.’

‘I know.’

A long way. Too long. He drew dotted red lines on the map behind his closed eyes. Slovakia, Romania, branching into the Ukraine on one side, lining up like soldiers against the shore of the Black Sea: Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria on the other, always down and down; some points stopped along the way, flashing like Christmas lights along the hidden ports of the Adriatic, looping under Greece and into the Aegean and all, _all_ , converging on that point where East meets West. One edge of the web, too far out to yet realise what was going to happen now the spider in the middle was dead.

A fly landed on his arm. It sucked at sweat and blood, but balked at the taste and flew away. He imagined it flying towards the light, dying mid-air, falling away without knowing what killed it. It was there, and then not.

‘You’re maudlin tonight. You know what it’s like to be dead. It’s not so bad.’

‘I’m not really dead.’

A laugh then, further from his ear than the words had been.

‘There’s a gravestone with your name on it. And it’s been on the news, so it must be true.’

‘Go away.’

‘Nahhhh. You don’t want that. C’mon, Sherlock. What’s wrong?’

‘There’s nothing wrong.’

He forced his eyes open. The room was bare, boarded up, marked only by his sleeping bag in one corner and some candles along the mantel of what had once been a beautiful fireplace. His backpack was tied to his ankle. The place smelled of dust, and the sweetness of a burnt spoon. James Moriarty sat on top of the only other piece of furniture in the place, a dresser with all but one of its drawers missing. His legs were crossed, casual in jeans. Blood dribbled from his hairline, and fell, endless, onto the pristine front of his white T-shirt. An eye dangled from the socket. His smile could set the room on fire.

‘That’s it. Wakey wakey.’

‘I’m too tired for this. It’s too hot.’

‘You’re too high. You need to dial it back, my dear. You missed two important pieces of the puzzle today.’

Jim clicked his tongue softly, causing loose teeth to shift in receding gums. 

‘What would you do without me here to help you?’

‘I wouldn’t be here at all if it weren’t for you.’

‘Mmm. You’d be rotting away in your London hovel, brain turning to mush without me to keep it sharp.’

‘You flatter yourself.’

‘Well, you’re not going to do it for me.’

Sherlock’s eyes drooped closed. Voices came from the street below, rising through damp air like a body bobbing to the surface. He made out words that meant ‘cigarette’ and ‘bitch’ when spun into English in his head. Boring. He dismissed them, and when he looked again, Jim was gone.

 

 


	2. Enter Sandman

 

 

 

He sliced into Prague’s underbelly and slipped inside, improving his Czech with words like ‘dealer’ and ‘syringe’. When he emerged into the pre-dawn haze he would look at the towers and spires floating above as though they belonged to a different world, one where tourists walked and took pictures, and wore shorts and sunglasses, eating ice cream at the base of fountains. It was not the Prague he was living in, where everything was dark and smelled of sweat, where people hid in doorways and conducted their lives underground. He walked through alleys, cobbled since the days of the Habsburg dynasty, slick with puke and broken glass, picking his way through the sleeping bodies of those who couldn’t make it home, or had no home to go to. He chose to be one of them once. Now, when it made most sense to lie down among them, he wanted nothing more than his bed, and his wall adorned with the orderly letters of science, his chair and his violin, John making tea, and a phone call offering him a case. 

‘You have a case,’ said a voice in his ear, and he nodded and stumbled into his room, the place he claimed two weeks ago and hadn’t managed to move out of since. 

‘I do.’

‘When are you going to start on it, then? Big Brother will be so disappointed.’

Jim dragged out the _o,_ theatrical as always. Sherlock refused to look at him. The dangling eye had given him a turn the first time he saw it, and it bothered him still. It served no purpose other than to shock, but he had seen worse in real life and it had never touched him. On Jim, though…it was illogical. The gunshot didn’t cause that. The injury made no sense.

‘You knoooooooow why,’ came the sing-song voice from across the room. Sherlock crouched on his heels, and ignored it in favour of easing open the tinfoil wrap procured ten minutes before. Jim tutted at the sight of powder, and started banging the back of his head against the wall. He’d leave a terrible stain, Sherlock thought, and imagined what Mrs Hudson would say, were she here.

‘She’d remind you that she isn’t your housekeeper,’ Jim supplied helpfully. ‘And would add the cleaning bill to your rent. Except she would _never_ own a place like this. Not Mrs Hudson.’

A different banging started, heels against the one drawer still in that dresser. Sherlock considered burning the thing to ash, except Jim might then take the chair. Or, God forbid, the mattress. 

‘Shut up,’ he said, his tone dull as he applied flame to the underside of the spoon. ‘And go away.’

‘You’re the soul of eloquence, darling. For God’s sake. Don’t be _boring_. Put that crap away, and get on with your job. Sooner you get started, sooner you’ll be ho-ooooome.’

Sherlock pulled the tourniquet tight with his teeth. Veins stood up hard, fat and full in arms already losing muscle mass. His eyelids flickered shut as he emptied the syringe into one, Jim’s voice slowing to the speed of a record set to the wrong rpm.

‘Exiiiit, ligggggght. Enterrrrrrr, niiiiiiight….’

He was singing, Sherlock realised, as he began to fold down to the floor. Singing, and banging his heels, leaving blood and brain smattered on the wall behind his head. He mouthed along, not realising he knew the words, not recognising the tune.

_We’re off to Never-Never Land._

 

*

 

He started this journey in the most illogical place, according to the people who knew. Mycroft had rolled his his eyes and muttered, ‘predictable’; Jim had cackled and said, ‘oh you _wish_ , darling.’ But he was only a voice in his head then. He didn’t arrive in person until the boat pulled into a berth in Dún Laoghaire marina. Sherlock waited in the cabin while the MI6 staff-cum-holidaymakers made the thing harbour-worthy. He wasn't high. He was numb, and forcing himself to think in order to cover it, running down the list of things he wanted to check before officially declaring this a dead end.

‘You’re wasting time. You should be on the Continent.’

And there he was. Jeans, and pristine white T-shirt, bleeding head wound, dangling eye. Sherlock’s fingers twitched and withdrew from the table-top because Jim was sitting on it, leering down at him. But the blood never made it as far as his jeans. It made a pool over his heart that never spread lower.

‘Do you really think I’d have left any part of myself _here_?’

‘You came from somewhere. And even you miss details here and there. I think we proved that.’

Jim laughed quietly, and pressed the tips of his thumb and index fingers to each other, making a circle with an indented top. 

‘Oh, Molly. Yes. Of course. I should have remembered her. But you’re so distracting, Sherlock. I must have got carried away.’

‘It cost you your victory. Now go away. I will not be haunted by _you_.’

‘It’s not me that’s haunting you, sweetheart. Not the way you think. But fiiiiiine, I’ll leave you to it. Have fun in the city. The archives at Trinity are especially enjoyable…but you know that. They’re all online now, and you’ve already been through them.’

Sherlock opened his mouth to say _that’s not the point_ , but Jim had already gone. 

 

*

 

There was an explosion. Diamonds rained down on the street. Sherlock picked his way through the debris, pretending to be dazed, and a tourist, and therefore not understanding the screams of _go back, go back, clear the road_ , yelled in his direction. Light glanced off bits shining in the rubble, and he swayed, rubbed dust from his eyes and went down to a crouch as if to keep his balance. His fingers scooped pieces of shining _something_ out from between the cobblestones, and then he was dragged away, and no amount of coercion would make the police let him near the crater where the barber’s shop used to stand.

He turned a corner, and pulled the stones out of his pocket. Fake diamonds, nothing more than costume jewellery. They were, however, exact replicas of the one Moriarty used to smash through the glass around the Crown Jewels. 

Back in his room, he pulled his laptop out of his rucksack and Jim laughed.

‘Are you going to hack the police? You’re not bad with a computer, but you’re not me, darling. They’ll be banging on your door before you’ve time to pack up.’

‘I’ll leave in time.’

‘Why don’t you go and talk your way in? It’s more clever, and you need to practice being smart again.’

Sherlock’s fingers shook as he pushed the screen up. Anger, not frustration. Maybe? It was getting hard to separate one emotion from the other, and it didn’t help that it wasn’t only Jim mocking him, calling him on every fault, every weakness, everything he missed. There was a cold, hard part of his mind still untouched, observing this behaviour and telling him he was pathetic. That it didn’t matter if it was so hot it was hard to breathe, and it didn’t matter if Jim laughing at him was unpleasant, and it didn’t matter that he missed London so much it felt like he was carrying a rock in his chest. The only thing that mattered was breaking down the network, and if he was to do that, he needed to stop wallowing. No more drugs. To _focus._

HIs fingers skittered across the keys, and Jim nodded. ‘You’re right. Focus. That’s what you need.’

He tapped the top of the screen. There were bones poking out of the tips of _his_ fingers, and they _click click clicked_ in time with his words. Had they been exposed before? Sherlock couldn’t remember. 

‘What are the diamonds for, Jim? When did you plant that bomb?’

‘What’re you asking me for? I’m not even here.’

‘If you know the answer, I know the answer.’

‘But if I don’t, then you don’t. Or I could refuse to tell you, because you’ve clogged yourself up with dodgy coke and crap heroin.’ His voice took on a childish tone, and the edges of his mouth turned down in exaggerated sorrow. ‘Did mummy never tell you it was dangerous to mix uppers and downers, Sher- _lock_.’

His mouth formed an O, popping the last syllable off the back of his tongue. A bubble of pink-tinged saliva ballooned out and exploded silently, flicking his chin with spit. Sherlock swallowed, and looked away. Jim laughed, high and edged with mania.

‘If you clean up, I might go away. Have you thought of that? Of course you have, you’ve thought of everything. Except the _obvious_.’

‘Oh?’ Sherlock went back to typing. ‘Prove how clever you are, then. Tell me what I missed.’

Jim was singing quietly, not much more than a hum. Sherlock knew this one, and wasn’t sure how. 

‘ _I saw the streams and rolling hills, where his brown eyes were waitin’_ …tell me something, darling. Do you think you’ve learned anything at all since you started this? Since we played our game? Since you met me?’

‘…I don’t know.’

‘You’ve learned to admit you don’t know things.’

‘I suspect that’s not what you were trying to teach me.’

‘Mmm.’ Jim’s heels bashed against the dresser drawer. It made a terrible noise, but never moved. ‘But that’s not important now. You’ve only ever learned what you want to learn, Sherlock. You’ll only pay attention to something that’s relevant.’

Sherlock ignored him, because he was not going to bother himself with things that obvious. He cursed his lack of fluency in Czech instead; he was a competent hacker, but no, not on Jim’s level, and having to utilise another language added a layer of complication that meant he wasn’t sure he was going to get it right. Perhaps talking his way in was a good idea after all.

‘Therrrrre you go. Knew you’d get there in the end.’

‘What do you _want_ , Jim? Why are you _here_?’ 

The anger bloomed like flames tearing through a corridor, sparked somewhere in his chest and erupting out through his mouth. He pushed the laptop aside and jumped to his feet, walking into Jim’s space for the first time since this insanity started. He was forcibly reminded of the last insanity, pirouetting himself into Jim’s face on the rooftop, enjoying how the man stood his ground without a flicker of intimidation or fear.

It was the same here. Jim just grinned. At this distance, it was clear how close his teeth were to dropping out of his gums. 

‘But that’s the obvious bit, sweetheart. Why do I have to walk you through everything?’

‘Because you’re me. Literally, this time. I don’t know why I’ve created you, but I’m not going to be embarrassed about engaging with my own mind. You’re _me_. Tell me what I want to know.’

Jim’s mouth once more turned into a clownish expression of sorrow. ‘You won’t like it.’

‘I don’t care. Tell me.’

He stared into the one intact eye. Jim started singing again, a brief snatch of melody from a youth Sherlock knew nothing about, a youth erased by Moriarty’s careful hand, only pieces of which Sherlock had managed to put back together. 

‘ _A hungry sound came through the breeze, so I gave the walls a talkin’…’_

Jim had a surprisingly sweet voice for someone so downright twisted. Sherlock didn't look away until he realised Jim was reaching out to touch his arm. He flinched, revulsion crawling up his skin. Jim’s fingers were dirty and bloodied, bones still visible through the tips. His laugh was hollow, and the blood never stopped dripping from the gash on his forehead.

‘Don’t want me touching you, Sherlock? I wonder why.’

‘Answer my question. Why are you here?’

Jim sighed, resigned to his host’s stupidity. His tone came out flat, deadpan. ‘You already know.’

‘ _Tell me_.’

There was no one there. Sherlock had just yelled at the wall, the edge of the dresser pressed into his thighs. He sucked a breath in and ran a hand through his hair, but froze when he heard Jim laugh.

‘It’s not that you need me here, darling. You _want_ me here.’

Sherlock shook his head. ‘You’re wrong.’

‘I’m you.’ A whisper across the back of his neck, so real it was as if someone had breathed on the fine hairs standing up from his skin. ‘I can’t be wrong. Not about this.’

 

*

 

It was dark when he woke. His head and torso were on the mattress, but the rest of him lay sprawled along the floor. He was still in his clothes, and even before he opened his eyes he knew he was dangerously dehydrated. His tongue felt enormous, distended and too large in his mouth. It was as hot as ever, but there was no sweat on his face and his head pounded, a dry _thump thump thump_ as if something were hammering on the inside of his skull in a desperate bid to get his attention.

He groaned and rolled, reaching for water. It was hot inside its plastic bottle, but it was wet, and it helped. It allowed him to try and process the afternoon that had somehow slipped away since Jim left. He had been standing. And then it had been hot and he’d been sleepy, and he didn’t remember getting high but he must have done, or he wouldn’t feel this bad now. He was aware of a hunger starting to scratch the back of his tongue, and a faint promise of impending cramp in his muscles. Addiction, then. The surest sign he had to stop for good. And if it meant Jim would stay away, so much the better.

He sat up carefully, and tossed his empty bottle aside. It bounced once off the floorboards, and then stopped. Sherlock reached for his rucksack to get another one, and then it was his turn to stop.

His works lay untouched on the chair. That was where he left them this morning, and it explained the need starting to grow in him. So he hadn’t shot up when he got back from the bomb site. But then-

-his head snapped around, and he took in the room again. Something felt different. But he couldn’t see what, because his head was killing him and the place was bare; there wasn’t much _to_ change. Jim was absent. The dresser remained untouched, covered in dust except where his own legs had pressed at the edge earlier. The candles were lit on the mantel - maybe that was it, he couldn’t remember doing that. His eyes moved on, and then pulled back. The flames were smooth, unmoving in the dead air. But the light from this angle glinted at something if he turned his head just _so_ , and he forced himself to ignore the pain in his head or the clutch of the muscles in his abdomen as he got up to see.

The two fake diamonds from the street lay on the mantelpiece, spaced evenly between the candles. They had been cleaned and shined, to the point they almost looked…

…real.

They were real.

Sherlock spun, glaring around the room as if someone would be standing in the corner with a guilty expression on their face. But there was no one, and nothing; only darkness, and heat that pressed to his skin all over, making him sticky underneath his clothes. Only silence, except for the distant memory of a laugh, and a sweet voice humming right out on the edge of hearing.

_Roving and roving and roving I’ll go, roving and roving and roving I’ll go…_

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
